


Lost in You

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Going a Little Mad [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Couple Things, Creampie, Daddy Kink, Edging, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, For like 10 minutes, Forced Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Joker being soft, L!Joker, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behaviour, Power Play, Praise Kink, Rough Kissing, Sex Toys, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Spanking, Teasing, Unsafe Sex, always with the edge of danger, becomes consensual, but like, for realz this time!, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: It's safe to say things have taken a turn in your life. Well, maybe notsafe, but a turn nonetheless.With the Joker making his intentionscrystalclear, all you can do now is make the best of the situation, and maybe discover some long-buried feelings that you never knew existed.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Reader, Joker/You
Series: Going a Little Mad [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595734
Comments: 70
Kudos: 181





	1. Lost in Yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always one of us who takes the blow  
> Always one of us who has to go  
> It's always one of us who should've known better  
> It's always one of us who gets to cry  
> Always one of us who's left behind  
> It's always one of us who could've try harder
> 
> It's like air breathing underwater  
> I don't care if I'm going under  
> It's a red flag when we are together  
> So tell me why I do it again
> 
> It's fucked up and I'm lost in you  
> Can't give you up if I wanted to  
> It's fucked up and I'm lost in you
> 
> “Lost in You” - Quintino

If someone held up a _before and after_ photo of your life in front of you, you wonder what it would look like. A respectable, hard-working and honest woman who obeyed the law and didn't step out of bounds, who enjoyed spending time with her friends and watching bad TV while probably drinking a little too much wine every weekend— _that's_ how you would've described yourself before. Throw in a preference for cats, a sweet tooth, and a _just-about_ -middle-class background, you had a recipe for a _normal_ life, something everyone hoped for eventually: the ability to make money, be independent, and not have bigger problems than dealing with the terrors that is grocery shopping for one while wandering around aimlessly trying to think of things to cook for yourself and not losing your mind in the boredom of your office job. 

But what would the _after_ photo look for you now? 

Well, you wouldn't be alone in the photo anymore, _he_ made damn sure of that. Definitely bruised and more than a little wild-eyed, you're not sure what else you'd see. Could you tell just by looking at someone that something so deep inside of them had changed, that they were with someone who was both the embodiment of terror but is _electrifying,_ that they were afraid but absolutely exhilarated at the same time? Was that something a person could suss out, put a name to? 

You aren't sure if you'd be able to, either.

It's been just over half a day since… _that_ happened. Your fingers gingerly brush the peripheral edges of the burn above your heart, just where the skin starts to swell and throb and not venturing further to where it bubbled and blistered. You haven't been able to do much else than lie in bed, your body sore as you tuned out everything that didn't pertain to breathing deeply and _not_ screaming and attacking the Joker like some kind of feral cat.

 _Yeah, like_ that _would've helped me._

Every part of you aches and you wish you could say it was total agony, that you hate him and want to gouge out his goddamn eyes and that you wish you had never gone to that _fucking_ Halloween party or agreed to go out with Joseph. 

But, try as you might, you can't quite get yourself there. 

Maybe it's because he's being nice. Now _that’s_ a word you'd never thought you’d associate with him— _nice._

After lying underneath him and crying for a good while post-branding—what kind of sick, demented asshole thinks of that boggles your mind until you remember _you're_ the one willingly cuddled up beside him—he held you to him, surprisingly gentle and not doing anything to further aggravate the burn or other injuries he gave you, until you fell asleep, saying sweet and twisted things in your ear all the while. Even more surprising to you was when he hopped right out of bed upon you waking up to make you some burnt toast and unevenly applied strawberry jam in the shape of a smiley face. It was so odd and weird and _thoughtful_ that you cried again when you saw it and sniffled a _thank you_ and then for some godforsaken reason gave him a hug in the form of sidling close and putting your head on his shoulder. God knows you thought he'd be _insufferable,_ that he'd continue his hot streak as Gotham's resident _Number One Asshole_ , but maybe it was the small grin he had on his face when he gave it to you or that you were feeling especially vulnerable that made you cling to him so hard afterward. He hummed at that, petting your hair until you fell into a light daze where you could compartmentalize and sort some things out.

 _Seems like you're doing a_ great _job so far._

You haven't gotten much further than where you began—you're still not sure what this all means, why it even happened (you thought you'd be boring and above the notice of a man like him), and what is supposed to happen next. Is this a mass-murderer's version of fucking _courtship?_ An odd, nightmare-fueled hallucination? A long-con you don't understand? You don't want to ask, afraid of what the answer might be, so you keep lying flat on your back with your head against his shoulder as one of his arms drapes over you, hand resting on your ribs as his greasy hair tickles your nose. 

What confuses you the most is the total lack of the urge to call the police on him, the absence of the desire to drive him from your bed and apartment. You just… want to stay here for a little while, pretend that this is still part of a dream and ignore that despite the abuse it took, your body still aches for him. 

He’s right, there is no getting away. And you're slowly starting to realize you don't want to.

Maybe _insane_ is a term that should be applied to that imaginary _after_ photo. 

* * *

The sun’s long-since sunk below the horizon by the time you muster the energy to get out of bed. It’s out of need more than anything—you’re hungry and need more than two minutes alone to think clearly. The Joker’s awake, has been for a while, but he hasn’t said much since he made the toast for you, another unexpected development. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about the Joker, it’s that the man is an egomaniac—emphasis on the _maniac_ part. An especially delusional part of your brain wants to attribute this to him being considerate, but you know better. Or, _should_ know better. 

_Probably has something up his sleeve…_

With that comforting thought, you slide out of bed, groaning quietly as you straighten your stiff back before digging through the pile of laundry on your floor until you find a large hoodie and clean underwear and pull them on, careful to not irritate the burn and cuts further. He doesn’t call after you when you don’t come back after going to the bathroom, and you hear no signs of life as you pad down the hall to the kitchen. Silence with him is something you’re unsure of how to navigate—is it a sign that he’s placated or is he seething under the surface over some imagined slight? 

_Think about it later,_ you think, sighing as you push your matted hair out of your face. You didn't exactly get a chance to brush it after things went sideways after your last shower. 

_This'll be a nightmare to comb out._

You sigh again, stomach growling and cramping from hunger, and you absently wonder why you even have an appetite, why you can think about eating after everything that happened. Weren’t you afraid before, fearing for your life in this whole situation dipped in _wrong?_

“Where has thinking got you? Just make something…” you grumble to yourself, pulling out a pot and hoping that’s enough inspiration to think of something to cook when a pair of hands land on your shoulders. 

“I, uh, _hope_ you’re thinkin’ of what we’re gonna ea- _t_ and _not_ about anything… _silly,”_ he says, chipper and light despite the threat looming in his words. 

Maybe it’s a bad case of disassociation, but you find that you’re not scared like you would’ve been just twelve hours earlier. 

_What else can he do? He’s not going to kill me, so…_

You can’t think of an end to that thought—it leads you back to your initial dilemma: Trying to determine what happens next, how this _could_ get a whole lot worse. 

_And I can’t have that._

His hands trail down to your arms, giving them a quick rub that soothes your aching muscles as you lean against his chest. Even through the thick fabric, you can feel the hard lines of his torso, how warm he is. It almost makes you want to hop back into bed with him, lie there just like this, pressed to him. You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, trying to think of something… I don’t have much, I meant to go to the store, but—” You cut yourself off. _But then_ you _happened,_ is what you’d like to say, but that wouldn’t be very helpful, would it? “I don’t think I can do much better than spaghetti,” you say instead, turning in place to give him a small smile in apology. 

Most of the greasepaint has rubbed off, mostly on your pillowcase and _definitely_ all over you ( _God_ , you need a long shower), but there are still large rings of black around his eyes, the white sclera the only indicator that he has pupils and isn’t some living skeleton with a Cheshire grin. He doesn’t look angry or even annoyed; he seems neutral, borderline impassive, waiting on you to tip the scale between amused and irritated. 

“I was thinkin' I might just eat _you,”_ he says, eyeing you up slowly and making your cheeks burn, “but, ah… we’ll make _do_ with what you’ve got.” 

_What the hell is_ that _supposed to mean?_

Before you can ask, he presses a finger against your lips, standing tall over you and his eyes heavy as he places a hand on the small of your back, leaning in close to murmur in your ear, his scars just brushing against the shell of it. “Why don’t _you_ go rinse off, hmm? Daddy’ll _rustle up_ some grub.” 

When his lips graze your neck, breath warm and singeing, and his finger drags from your lips to the base of your neck, your pelvis tantalizingly close to his, a vision flashes in your mind of you two going at it on the kitchen table, his hands on your waist and then cupping your breasts _and then—_

The Joker’s gone, all traces of his warmth leaving with him, and you’re left feeling like someone threw a bucket of ice-cold water in your face. 

“Wh-What?” you stutter, blinking hard as your head clears.

 _How could I be thinking about that after everything he’s done? After what_ I’ve _done?_

He’s by the counter now, sliding one of the knives out of the butcher's block to look at it fondly. The ghost of a cold edge of steel traces across your stomach, making the long line of red carved into you sting as you remember how he used one not so different from the knife in his hand less than a day ago. He twists it around, eyes roaming its lines and curves like he would a lover—why is that a thought that makes you shiver?—and pops his lips together before his gaze lands on you, just as heavy and piercing. _“Skedaddle_ , babygirl. Unless you _don’t_ want your, ah, _surprise?”_

The shiver that originated in some sick desire he awakened in you gives way to one of genuine fear. There's something _wrong_ with you for how heat's pooling in your belly at the sight of a shirtless Joker holding a knife, and the healthy dose of fear that he could hurt you more only serves to make it enticing. Maybe it's his broad shoulders, the lean muscles of his arms, or— 

_Or maybe it's because I’ve totally lost my goddamn mind._

You rub your forehead, telling yourself to focus on the _rational_ and to think about the pain, how you ache and wouldn't be able to do anything even remotely in the ballpark of what you two did for a few days, at least. 

_If I’m alive that long and this isn’t some sick joke in the making…_

That’s a dangerous line of thought, one that you shake out of your head. 

Trusting him in your kitchen is a recipe for a disaster. The guy is known for the bombs he crafts—now _that’s_ a reminder of how much you’ve really lost it—what horrors would he be concocting in your kitchen?

_He's messing with me. He must be… right?_

“You’re not going to… set anything on fire, are you?” you ask, keeping your face blank but unable to stop your voice from having that little squeak at the end. He rolls his eyes. 

“I _might_ if you keep asking asinine questions like _that,”_ he growls, wagging the knife at you as he turns and rips open the fridge door; it slaps against the wall as he starts to rifle through its contents. You can already feel a tension headache forming. 

Choosing to not question him while he's holding a long filleting knife and doing as you’re told seems like the smart option. You _do_ want to shower, fix your hair and treat the cuts and burns before they get infected. Regret finds you almost immediately when you shut the bathroom door and carefully take off the hoodie. Compartmentalizing was easier when you didn't have to look at his handiwork, stare at that bright red _J_ stamped onto you like you’re some prized horse, feel the strings of singe marks and bruises from the Christmas lights, and wince at the smallest bit of pressure against the bruises around your neck, chest and arms. 

You look _awful,_ so why aren't you angrier? 

But you don't have an answer, not one that makes sense, and you stop trying to find one. That's what you've always done in your life—try to find a reason for everything, root out the source of a problem, slap a label on it, and convince yourself that you could just… move on from it. _Know your enemy,_ and all that. With the Joker… you realize you didn't really know anything, nevermind yourself. Maybe that psycho Scarecrow guy is right—maybe there is a switch in everyone waiting to be flipped, another self hiding in the dark nudging all your impulsive desires. And maybe the Joker figured that out years ago and didn't need to get gassed with fear toxin to figure it out. 

You've always been a control freak, too, but maybe… maybe now was the time to listen—to let go. 

_Definitely crazy…_

You decide that sanity doesn't matter, not in this strange new world you're living in, as you stand under the warm water, wincing as it pours over the burn and sets your nerves on fire. 

Apparently _letting go_ means embracing the world as a dream, floating from one moment to the next. So, that's what you do—float like you're not in your body and like your aches and pains and bruises and burns aren't real at all, just a bump as you move through the ether. It's quiet, something you like, as you cut through the steam filling the bathroom, pulling on the same clothes from earlier and working your fingers through the tangles of your hair. 

There are no sharp edges, no jabs of pain, no spikes of fear when you walk out of the bathroom, staring at the hanging pictures on your wall, taking in with a tilt of your head that they’re crooked, no longer sitting at a straight, ninety degree angle. For once, you don’t have the urge to right them, feeling light on your feet, wonderfully distracted, but it isn't long before something permeates the dream, just enough to make you remember you're hungry. 

“What’s this?” you ask quietly when you walk back to the kitchen. Rivulets of water trail down your legs and your hair soaks the collar of your hoodie, and you move to stand next to him, your shoulder just brushing his. But you forgot how fast he is until he spins you around and nudges you towards the table.

“Didn’t I say it was a _surprise?"_ he chastises, the words innocent but his tone hiding something darker, and he clicks his tongue as he forces you to sit in a chair, pressing down on your shoulders and squeezing just enough to make you flinch. _"Hmm?"_ he prompts again when you’re silent. 

"You did, I'm just… curious, that's all." Trying not to notice how compliant you’ve become, with your voice so soft and meek and hands idle at your sides, you tilt your head back to look at him, your muscles protesting at the added strain. It's hard to tell if he's frowning or smiling with the scars and lilt of his mouth, and when he leans down, you force your eyes to stay open. "And I'm… I’m a little hungry." 

Now you can really tell he's smiling. Raising his black-smudged brows and smirking in self-satisfaction, he presses his ruined lips against your forehead, moving just enough for his words to tickle your eyelashes. "Well, we _did_ work up an appetite, didn't we, babygirl?" 

_That's one way to describe it._

Shaking away the intrusive thought, your cheeks get hot again, but there's no moving away to hide or play bashful. "Yeah, I guess… I guess we did." 

He gives your shoulders one last squeeze before evaporating, gone in a blink back to the counter like he was a spirit all along who can corporealize at will. That would make more sense—if he isn't real, just a passing spirit that'll whisk itself away when you least expect it, then this is part of some otherworldly experience that you can still wake up from. 

If it wasn't for the throbbing brand, you might be able to convince yourself it's true.

Objects clatter around your kitchen, utensils clanking in the sink as he throws them, dishes clinking against each other so hard you think they’ll shatter, but you stay where he put you, your hands worrying over each other under the lip of the table. It’s then that you notice that most of his clothes are still there from when he peeled them off after throwing you to the floor—his thick trench coat, the purple blazer, his vest and tie. And, sitting on top of it all, is his gun holster with the pistol still inside. 

Cold sweat slides down your back, your shoulders taut as you stare at the gleaming metal and shiver, goosebumps erupting up your bare legs. When you squint, you think you can see red dots along the muzzle. Your stomach twists. “Oh, um… um, J—”

 _“Zip. It,”_ he hisses, not even turning to look at you. 

He couldn’t have forgotten that he left it there, right? Is this some sort of test, a way for you to screw up so he can hurt you again? 

_But if I have his gun, then…_

You could shoot him if you really wanted. He wouldn’t be able to get to you in time. You’ve never shot one before, but you know enough to flick off the safety and line up the sights. Hands shaking, you reach for it, half-convincing yourself that you could pull the trigger. You could shoot him—be done with it all. You’re not even worried about missing—there’s at least six shots you could get off and _one_ of them would hit him. 

_Right?_

You stop midway, shaking becoming a violent tremor. 

He’s a terrible person—one of the worst there is, and that’s saying _a lot_ for a place like Gotham—who’s done terrible things to everyone, _to you._ He’s a violent psychopath who dresses up like a clown, ruins peoples’ lives, is _clearly_ a sadist, and suffers from delusions of grandeur. This man took advantage of you, broke into your home, pushed a man off of a _bridge,_ cut and _burned_ you, and yet… 

_Why does the thought of holding that make my stomach hurt?_

Thinking about hurting him doesn’t mean _that_ particular flip’s been switched yet. And, if you let your mind wander, you can’t find the urge to hurt him. Not in a permanent way. 

_What the hell happened to your sense of vengeance?_

Courting the possibility that this will dampen whatever manic fancy he’s plunged himself in as he wrecks your once-neat kitchen, you quietly stand and pick up the worn leather holster with the tips of your fingers, mindful to stay far away from where the gun’s dangling. You don’t make a sound as you hang it on your coat rack—what else are you supposed to do with it? Swallowing hard when it sways after letting go, you take his jackets and put them over top as if that’ll cover up the fact that there’s a deadly weapon that he could very well use on _you_. 

Gravity pulls on your stomach like you swallowed a heavy magnet, the force of it enough to make your knees feel weak. Somehow, you keep getting blindsided by this—the fact that he’s violent, that he could’ve killed you last night, that you’re playing a dangerous game that doesn’t have an escape. At least, not one you’re willing to take. 

You jump when you hear a dainty cough close to your ear. Spinning around so fast you trip, something clamps around your arm before you hit the ground, holding you aloft. Heart hammering against your ribs and the cut on your stomach splitting open, you look up. 

“Dinner’s, ah… _served,_ doll.” 

He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You realize he must’ve been watching you the whole time, waiting to see what you’d do, and you can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not. 

“Gettin’ _distracted_ on me, hmm?” he asks when you stay mute, your bruised lips pressed together tightly. 

Huffing when you can’t muster an answer, he pulls you up slowly until your chest is against his. This time, he isn’t gentle. He seems to angle himself so that he’s pressing against every bruise, his thumb placed dangerously close to the burn as his hand grips your shoulder. You cling to his biceps, both for support and because you can't seem to help but crave the contact with his bare skin. It's… intoxicating, like it was that first night you had together, and you're slowly starting to accept that maybe _that's_ when your life really began. 

“You’re _quiet_ tonight, aren’t you? If I didn’t know any better…” His free hand brushes the still-wet hair from your face, and he leans in, lips hovering just above yours as the hand trails down your torso, sliding his thumb under the band of your panties to rub your hip bone. "I'd say you were up to, ah… _no good,"_ he murmurs, voice a heavy purr. 

Eyes closing, you unconsciously go up on the tips of your toes, trying to draw yourself to his height as your hands brush up the corded muscles of his arms and wrap around his neck, breathing in the faded smell of greasepaint and sweat and the faintest hints of your perfume on his skin. Just when your lips touch, he pulls away, untangling himself from you and rolling his shoulders as he throws himself into a chair and cracks his neck, and you're once again left feeling like you've been doused, like someone stole the air from your lungs. 

The heat that began building in your stomach stagnates, and you're slapped with the knowledge of just how badly you want him, just how much a few touches, a promise of contact and affection, and him just being _near_ you can leave you keening. Your cunt is still so sore from earlier, but your fevered brain is trying to convince you that riding him at the table wouldn't be such a bad thing.

 _Jesus_ Christ _. Keep it together—don't think about that—_

"Sit down," he says, dragging you out of the rabbit trail your brain started down, legs spread as he lounges in the chair. It's almost like he can read your thoughts, inviting you to sit on his lap and act out the fantasy in your head. It's not until he snaps his fingers that you realize he's motioning to the chair beside him, and you self-consciously pull down your hoodie to cover your underwear, wishing you'd opted to put on pants.

He doesn't say anything when you finally join him at the table, your stomach growling when you see that he made goddamn _quesadillas_ of all things—you didn't even know you had the ingredients to make them—and has a spread of sour cream and salsa still in their containers and spoons haphazardly thrown in, no plates or cutlery but a glass of water next to you. He purposely pulled your chair closer to his, just near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence and the brush of his pant leg beside you without actually being able to touch him. Not looking at the food he made, he stares at you, and you can't tell if it's in concentration or because he's angry. 

You don't know what you'll do if he's angry. 

"I—I'm sorry if—" 

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you can force out the rest of the sentence. Your head drops, head racking with how the hell you're supposed to act after everything that happened without being able to read him as well as he can read you. 

“Why did you make this?” you ask eventually, picking up one of the jagged triangles and taking a small portion after he started digging in, somehow not spilling all over himself despite the aggressive bites. You thought he would’ve made some odd arrangement, maybe cereal and pasta together with peanut butter—there’s no way this guy can have a normal diet—but it never crossed your mind that he’d actually be a good cook, and your small bites become bigger as your appetite returns. 

Dragging his thumb across his cheek, picking up wayward spots of sour cream and red paint before sticking it in his mouth and sucking on it lewdly, he makes sure to keep eye contact all the while before taking another bite to speak with his mouth full. “Well, I don’t know about _you,_ but I’m a big fan of salsa and _cheese—_ ”

“No, I mean… why are you being…” You trail off when he stops chewing to narrow his eyes. Panic nearly brings the contents of your stomach up as you think of a way to rephrase the question, and you shift in your seat while trying not to make it seem like you're not squirming. “After… after last night, I'm just… this is really nice. That's all that I meant.” His eyes stay squinted; a muscle in his jaw jumps and you flinch. "Thank you, by the way. It's really good. You're… you're a better cook than I am," you finish, making sure to maintain eye contact and smile as best you can. 

The look of suspicion ebbs, a languid smile pulling up one side of his mouth like it’s attached to a string, dimples showing through the remaining splotches of white covering his face. “Uh, wha- _t?_ I can’t do something _nice_ for my special bunny, is that it?” 

Now it’s _your_ turn to feel suspicious. He’s acting like last night didn’t happen, that you don’t have a reason to be nervous, like this is entirely normal, something you’ve done a thousand times before in some parody of a domestic live-in situation. It leaves you feeling confused, and if it wasn’t for the throbbing pain acting as the only reminder, you might’ve believed that there wasn’t anything strange about this, either. 

But there is. This whole damn debacle is one surreal moment after the next, and you pinch your leg hard, both to make sure this isn’t a dream and to keep your mind sharp and guarded. 

“It’s just—last night, when—”

“Listen up and listen _good,_ babygirl, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this _once,”_ he interrupts, pointing the quesadilla in his hand at you as he speaks, leaning closer across the small amount of table space between you. “If you’re the type of, ah, _lady_ who wants to _rehash_ every _little_ thing and talk about _who’s_ hurt _who_ and _when_ and lookin’ for big ol’ _apologies_ and declarations of _love,”_ he barks out a laugh, eyes rolling at the word _love,_ as if it’s a joke all on its own, and your face gets hot, “you’re talking to the _wrong_ guy. _Past_ is the past. _Yesterday_ is yesterday. And _today_ is today. Capiche?” he finishes, pumping his eyebrows when his chin drops toward his chest. 

_He is such…_

“That’s it? I just… forget about it?”

You want to call him a bastard, lob some sort of insult at him, but it hurts to know that he’s right—he’s not the kind of man who’d care, who’d want to linger on the past to _hash things out._ He threw a man off a _bridge_ because you dared to go out with someone else, _branded_ you as some sort of sick lesson. Why would a man like him want to talk about feelings, about responsibility? How could you expect clear answers when he thrives on being a frustrating enigma? 

“I do it all the time. Bu _-t,_ and it’s a _big_ but, sweet cheeks,” he grins lasciviously at that and gives your ass a quick squeeze, giggling through his nose like he was twenty years younger when you squeak, “we don’t forget the _lessons_ we shoulda learned the first time around, hmm?”

You don’t mean to, but your eyes get heavy and sting with unshed tears and you can’t bear looking at him anymore, to see him so _self-satisfied._ Snaking an arm over your shoulders, he forces your chair closer to his until you’re side-by-side. He jostles you towards him, but you keep your head down as you wrangle a hold on your emotions. 

_I should’ve shot him when I had the chance._

_"That's my girl,"_ he praises, planting a sloppy kiss on your cheek. He pops out of the chair, taking the plate with the quesadillas and throwing it in the sink. You nearly shriek at the crash of glass and ceramic as they shatter, but the Joker’s unbothered, shrugging it off and giggling. 

_“Now,”_ he begins, rubbing his hands together with a nefarious grin, “we’ve got _things_ to pack, babygirl, so no time to, ah, _dawdle.”_

_Pack?_

Before you have time to ask, a booming _knock knock_ raps against your door. Your breath stops in your throat until you feel like a panicked rabbit stuck in a corner, working yourself up until your heart feels like it’ll hammer out of your chest. A quick glance at the stove clock shows that it’s nearly ten at night—no one would be stopping by this late without calling ahead. That can only mean— 

“Ma’am, it’s the police,” a deep voice calls from the other side of the door. 

_“Jesus—”_

_Oh no, oh no, no, no._

You look to the Joker, expecting him to be grabbing his gun and getting ready to start a shoot-out, but he looks… eerily _calm_ , unperturbed. Almost like he was expecting this to happen. 

“Well, ya gonna _answer that,_ babygirl? Don’t wanna keep the _good_ officers, ah, _waiting,”_ he whispers, moving to stand behind you. 

You want to kill him—you wish you had before this. It should’ve been _you_ calling the police here, but now what would they think? Could you go to prison just for having sex with the Joker? He didn’t need to do anything, you’ve completely fucked yourself. How can you explain this? 

_There is no explaining this._

You’re going to prison. Your life as you know it is over. If you’re not in jail, you’re going to die in some showdown while the Joker gets away scot-free because that’s what he _always_ does. 

Mouth opening and closing but unable to speak, staring at the door while rings of black darken your vision, you hyperventilate. “I— _I can’t,_ what if—what if they—J, _I’m scared—”_

“Hey now, _hey.”_ He steps in front of you and, putting himself between you and the door, he pets your hair, the other hand circling around your bicep and keeping you in place as you back toward a corner in blind panic. He drops his head so he’s at your level, eyes grounding you as his thumb strokes your cheek in soothing motions. “Keep your answers short and breezy and you’ll be _fine.”_

_I’m going to prison—what’ll happen to my family? I don’t know what to do—he set me up for this didn't he? Oh, Christ—_

“J, I can’t—” You take a big gulp of air to keep yourself from sobbing when another round of knocks rattles your door in its frame. “Just give me a minute, I’ll be right there!” you shout, hoping your voice sounds even and not like that of a guilty person. “I’m—I’m so _screwed,_ oh my God—”

He presses a hand over your mouth, backing you up until your spine meets the wall. You push against his weight leaning on your chest, unable to breathe and barely taking in the sounds around you or his ghoulish face. He looks entirely too delighted, feeding off the fear and uncertainty while you drown in it. 

“Need you to _focus_ for Daddy, babygirl,” he whispers in your ear, his hand still firmly in place. 

You almost scream when his other hand drops down to your panties like it did before, but this time his finger lands on top of your clit through the wet fabric. Moaning, you’re not pushing him away anymore but clinging to his shoulders instead as your body breaks out in a fever. 

“You’ll do fine, you just need to… have a, uh, _clear head.”_

He pulls your panties to the side with one finger and you really think he’s going to fuck you against the wall with the police officers _right there_ like a complete _crazy person,_ but there’s a sharp edge in his eyes, as cutting as the knives he uses, and they’re not just filled with desire. Legs spreading involuntarily, knees weak, you groan when you feel something push against your entrance. You think it’s going to be his finger, but it’s thicker than that. His pants are still done up, you can feel his erection against your stomach, but then he’s pushing something inside you, and you’re wet enough that it goes in with no substantial resistance. His finger follows whatever it is, pushing it further until your legs really _do_ give out and he holds you up with the weight of his body. 

“And the, ah, _only_ person who’s gonna be _screwing_ you is _me_ , babygirl,” he growls in your ear, withdrawing his finger and sticking it in his mouth, taking away the hand from yours as you pant. He fixes your panties as your legs shake and hands you a pair of sleeping shorts you’re not even sure are yours. “Make Daddy _proud.”_

_What the_ hell _is he playing at—_

“Ma’am, is everything OK in there?” one of the officers shouts, knocking again. 

Swallowing your rage and the arousal-fueled discomfort from whatever it is that he did to you (and it can’t be anything good, you _really_ should’ve shot him) for the time being, you nearly trip as you pull the shorts up and rip the door open after sliding the chain and drawing back the deadbolt. 

“Oh, I’m sorry about that, officers—is everything OK?” you ask in one rushed breath, panting from having the Joker’s fingers in your pussy as you feel it tightening around the foreign object. You hope your face isn’t too red, that the collar of your hoodie is high enough to hide the marks the Joker made and the Christmas lights pattern all over your neck. 

Both of the officers are men in blue patrol uniforms, one considerably older than the other, and they stare at you with guarded expressions that can’t hide their apprehension. You try smiling, hoping to whatever divine sonofabitch that’s out there is deciding to help you for once.

“Ma’am, we’re here about Joseph Magnolia. Are you familiar with this man?” 

The younger officer—MacIntyre, if you’re reading the badge right—pulls out a photograph from a file under his arm. Your skin goes ashen as you stare at it. 

It’s Joseph in a hospital bed, and it looks like he’s alive. 

“That’s—”

You’re about to tell them everything, spills the proverbial beans as the guilt pushes its way up your throat and nearly makes you sick at the officers’ feet. That is, until that oval object Joker pushed inside you starts to vibrate and your knees almost buckle. 

_No, he didn’t—_

But the Joker did. It was a small vibrator he put in you. 

_I should’ve killed him. Jesus, why am I so_ weak— 

“Ma’am?” Officer MacIntyre asks, leaning down to get a better look at you. Your entire body’s on fire, muscles shaking and your own slick collecting in your panties to the point you’re worried it’ll start flowing down your thighs. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from moaning, your knuckles going white as you grip the doorframe. 

“I just—just know him from work, we—we met at an office party a few weeks ago. Is he—is he alright? Please, don’t tell me—”

Every breath and word is an effort in not giving yourself away. At best, they’ll think you’re some mentally unstable weirdo; at worst, they’ll take this as a sign of guilt, that you meant for poor Joseph to get shoved off a bridge. 

_Mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over—_

You clench your legs tight when the pattern to the vibrations change, going from a constant _hum_ to being more erratic and pulsing. 

_Why is he doing this? Hasn’t he made things bad enough already?_

You don’t see Joker in the corner of your eye—he must be somewhere else—and you cover a groan with a loud cough as you try your best to look worried and _not_ like an accomplice. It doesn’t matter what J did to you—you should’ve called the police months ago. But you didn’t. And now you’re paying the price in the form of whatever degenerate whimsy strikes the Joker's sensibilities. 

The cops exchange glances, taking in your forced smile with raised brows, before continuing. “We found Mr. Magnolia late last night. He was hypothermic and has a serious head injury, but the doctors expect him to recover.” 

The relief you feel is greater than the sparks of arousal churning in your belly, and your eyes grow damp as you beam at the officers. “Oh, thank God!”

It’s like the Joker’s trying to punish you still—as soon as the words leave your mouth, the vibrations increase in speed to the point you’re convinced they must all be able to hear it, that it won’t be long now until _everyone_ knows how badly you fucked up. Sweat collects along your neck and you’re sure you’re going to pass out. 

“Would you mind if we came inside?” the younger man says, looking concerned as he tries to peer over your shoulder into the apartment. You all but slam the door closed, narrowing it until just your face and part of your shoulders can be seen through the opening. 

_What’ll happen if they get in?_

You know the answer to that: Joker will kill them. 

“Y-Yes, I would,” you force out, barely keeping yourself from panting with the effort of maintaining a straight face. Their looks of concern turn into ones of suspicion, but you make yourself stand firm. “Sorry, but my place is a mess—I’m doing a bunch of painting and I’m embarrassed for anyone to see it right now.” Their faces are still blank, eyes narrowed. You resist the urge to wipe the sweat collecting at your hairline. "I was diagnosed with OCD when I was a teen. It's… I don't want to trigger an episode, you know? It’s worse when there’s other people in my place…”

That’s not a total lie—you _were_ diagnosed with a mild form of OCD as a teenager. That, and a whole other host of issues. But the officers don’t need to know that, and you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding when they nod and back up, even if they don’t look any less suspicious. 

“What was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Magnolia?” the older man asks, taking charge and embodying all the fatherly presence he can muster. It would almost be endearing if he didn’t know that every minute he spent talking with you was another minute closer to Joker losing his patience, his jealousy-fuelled rage coming back with a vengeance that wouldn’t end well. 

As if he can read your mind, the vibrator goes up another level and you think you’ll cum right there and then until, just as suddenly as it spiked, it quiets back down to that dull _hum,_ your walls sore from stretching around the Joker and now from contracting and spasming around the toy inside you. 

_Why is he like this?_

You’re not sure what’s the point of asking yourself that, you know well enough that no one has an answer. 

“Very—very casual, we just… just met at the party and he asked me out. We were supposed to—to meet last night but he never showed, so I came—” You almost fall over when your whole body seizes, muscles shaking so bad that you have to take a moment to remember how to breathe. “I came back here and—and went to bed early.” 

If you don’t get yourself arrested, you’re going to kill that bastard. Smash his head in, conscience be damned. The city would probably even give you a fucking medal. 

“He didn’t attempt to contact you at all to your knowledge?” one of them asks, you can’t tell anymore, your head swimming with the desperate need to be filled, to touch your clit for a blessed few seconds to relieve the pressure, make the feeling go away that’s eroding your sanity. But you can’t, and you struggle to find words that make sense, pulling them out of the air and hoping they go together. 

“No, no—nothing like that,” you say, waving a dismissing hand before you remember that they can check cell phone records. “I mean, we had talked a bit beforehand, through—through texts and that—that sort of thing. But I didn’t hear from him—him all night.” 

You’re _so close,_ he keeps eking the pressure up until you’re sure you’re going to fall down to the floor in a quivering mess. 

“Are you alright, ma’am? You look a little… fevered.”

_Oh my God, no, no, no—_

You don’t know what’s going to kill you first; Joker, the cops when they find out what you’ve done and who’s in your apartment, or your own overwhelming sense of mortification. Cum is most certainly spilling down your panties, soaking your shorts to the point you can feel it every time your legs move. 

“Do I?” you laugh nervously, pushing back your hair in what you hope is a casual gesture. “I—I’ve been trying to jog in the mornings, but I think all I’ve done is catch the flu.” 

They nod, but you don’t think they believe you, not that you can see straight enough to tell for sure. You hope they just think you’re nuts rather than an exhibitionist. 

_Jesus, why did I have to think about that?_

Now the image of you and Joker on Halloween infiltrates your brain, your pussy dripping at the thought of him slamming into you against that brick wall, his hands holding your hips while you— 

“Can you account for your whereabouts from between 9:30pm and 2:30am?” 

You didn’t think you could get any redder, but just the _thought_ of him inside you is almost enough to make you cum and all you want to do is lock yourself in your closet and pretend you were never such a _massive_ disappointment. 

“Um—yes,” you say, only half-hearing the question. “Yeah, I was here at home.” 

_That sounded_ really _convincing._

“Can anyone corroborate that?” you’re asked, but your breathing is getting heavier, almost a full-on pant. 

_I hate him, I hate him so fucking much—_

They need to leave; you’re not going to last much longer. And, as if on cue, Joker turns up the pressure again until it takes everything in you not to let out a keening moan. 

“The restaurant,” you force out, rubbing your forehead like you’re tired but are really just trying to hide the way your brows are furrowing in pleasure. “They can—can tell you that I left when he didn’t show. And you can call my cell phone company. They’ll tell you I’ve been here.” 

You don’t care if they believe you or not—there’s no way you’re turning on him when you’re like this—that infernal fucking _clown_ probably thought of that. Your rage is almost enough to dampen your burning need. 

Almost.

“I—I'm sorry, I feel really sick. Can we do this another time?” you ask, forcing your head up to stare until a spasm shakes your core, making you double over. 

They move forward as if to help you, but you wave them away, clutching your stomach and hoping that’s clue enough. It seems like there really is someone on your side after all—the cops back up and nod, waving their farewells and telling you that they’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. You barely hear them after they tell you to feel better, keeping the door open long enough to see them move out of sight before you slam it shut and sink to the ground, your held-off orgasm about to rip you apart as your entire body trembles. 

_“Oh my God—”_ you pant, finally letting out a suppressed moan. You’re so close, almost there and the vibrations getting more intense until— 

It stops. 

You could wail, your body shaking now in protest. He did this all on purpose—he _knew_ they were coming, had a fucking _vibrator_ and pants ready just to—to _humiliate_ you. It dawns on you to search for him, to find whatever sick perch he’s watching from like a fucking _voyeur_ and wring his neck _._

He’s not in your kitchen, not in the hall. That leaves your bedroom and living room. 

Dragging yourself up and storming down the hall, you let wrath take away your fear as you search for some divine- _goddamn_ -retribution. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?!” you all but scream, your fury righteous and indignant when you spot him in your sitting room, legs propped up on the coffee table and a bright pink remote hanging from his fingers. He’s still not wearing a shirt, his muscled chest bare and arms long and loose along the backrest of the couch. He was laughing when he saw you, but it dies as abruptly as it started, and he leans back and glares. You don’t care, there’s only so much one person can take and you hit your limit twenty hours ago. “You are such—you're a liar and a _sick_ bastard. Go find someone else who wants you, ruin someone else’s life, but _leave me alone,”_ you force out between clenched teeth, vision blurry with tears and voice getting thick. 

He’s staring, completely still like a big cat about to pounce on its prey as he tilts his head to the side, eyes dragging from your ankles up your legs, gaze slow and lingering until they rest on your shorts. One corner of his scarred mouth curls up in a smirk. It’s cruel and mean and _infuriating_ and pernicious, but it’s his eyes that have you worried, like they could cut you open if he wanted them to. 

“C’mere, babygirl.” 

It seems like a simple request, but your rage and frustration root you in place, your chin high like the pain he put you through last night wasn't enough to give you a permanent reminder about why defiance will only bring you agony.

But, just like with so many other things, you couldn’t care about that right now. You narrow your eyes like his, meeting them in a challenge.

"No."

You thought he might roll his eyes, but he doesn't. They're fixated on you, calculating and filled with something you want to call malice, but that doesn't completely account for what you see—the mirth he finds in sadism, the delectation of watching you writhe, the pleasure of pulling on your strings as he watches you dance for him. 

“Wasn’t a, ah… a _request,_ doll. Either _you_ come to _me,_ or…” He trails off, staring at the nails on one hand while reactivating the vibrator with the remote in the other, putting it on the highest setting. With a yelp of surprise, you drop to your knees, muscles shaking as you moan. _“Or,_ I can come over there and you _won’t_ like what I do,” he snarls, gripping the remote so hard you think it might snap. 

You nod desperately, not wanting to turn into a drooling mess on the floor while he sits there watching, and he turns down the dial, beckoning you closer with a raised brow. Leaning against the wall for support, you make yourself find the strength to keep the tatters of your dignity intact. 

The Joker seems to have other ideas. 

“Mmm- _mm,_ babygirl,” he tuts when you begin to stand, smacking his lips together before his grin broadens. _“Crawl.”_

Opening your mouth to argue, he silences you with a glare. You shake your head; he can’t make you do that, you _won’t_ do that— 

“Do you wanna hear what I’ll do, babygirl, if you _won’t_ listen, hmm?” he asks with a sigh, eyes finally rolling as he sits up and drags his feet off your coffee table, the once-brown irises as dark and opaque as a shark’s. “I do… _enjoy_ pain, doll. I do. _I like it._ Bu- _t,_ something tells me you still don’t _really_ know what that _means._ I can show you, y'know, and it won’t be so, ah… _gentle_.” He's quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in before swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. “ _You_ choose.” 

You’ve never heard his voice like this—so low and calm and _dark_ and filled with a kind of certainty you thought only the devil could have. It’s the voice of someone who’s made violence an artform, brutality a form of grace, and utter madness a source of reason. It turns your burning blood cold and heavy in your veins. 

He means it, you know he does. His will is stronger than iron, and yours isn’t enough to break it. 

You thought your pride died last night, but you strangle it again, brushing away the tears collecting on your cheeks to get on your hands and knees. It hurts—everything does—your muscles protesting and the vibrator in you a presence that makes the humiliation of this worse, your heart heavy and swallowing painful. You want to just hate him, to shove all the blame from yourself, but you can’t find it in you any more than you could to pick up the gun and shoot him in the head, and you keep your head down with the distressing realization that you’re wetter than you were before. 

_Was I always like this?_

You find that dream, the one where you're floating and this doesn't need to be real. It blunts the pain, makes this into a mutually desired game, and the truth of this bubbles up until you can't push it down anymore. 

Not stopping until you’re near his feet, your heart begins to race again, loud and thumping and insistent. He flicks his hand up, motioning you to stand. Muffling the urge to groan, you clamber to your feet, eyes fixed on anything and everything as long as it’s not his face. 

“Take ‘em off.”

_Jesus, my resolve really is weak._

“W-What?” you stutter, half-hoping you didn’t hear him right even though you know you did. 

Your burn sears anew when he sticks a finger inside the waistband of your shorts, pulling back and releasing so it snaps against your skin, chuckling when you flinch away from him. “The shorts. _Off,”_ he growls. 

Wiping at your cheeks again, you swallow your tears and grit your teeth when you pull them down, kicking them out of the way when they hit your ankles. You yelp when one of his large hands grips your hip, holding you tight as the other one slides under your hoodie to lay flat against your stomach, feeling every laboured breath you take. His thumb reaches down toward your clit, and he leans forward to plant a wet kiss on the side of your thigh. You shiver, breath hitching in your chest when the pad of his thumb rubs down the length of your slit. 

“Oh, you are _drenched,_ aren’t you, babygirl?” 

Even sitting on the couch, you don’t feel that much bigger than him. It’s like his presence adds to his more powerful build and that even when you’re above him, he’s still looming over you. Hands going to either side of your waist, he forces you to straddle his thigh, ignoring your protests and shoves against his chest as he holds you still. One hand wraps itself in your hair, pulling your head back to bare your neck to him and you moan when he licks along the corded singe marks. 

_“Be honest,”_ he murmurs against your skin, like he's speaking to it instead of you, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh around your thighs and hips. 

You can’t think of why you were so resistant, why you didn’t want to be near him before. His thigh is strong and wiry and _muscular_ and yours involuntarily clench around him, the friction awakening the memories of when you were so close to cumming earlier. 

_Don’t you dare, don’t even_ think _about it._

“Y-Yes,” you say, voice breathy and thick. He’s not pulling your hair too hard yet, and you risk looking at his face. The anger’s gone, but you’d almost prefer that to how he’s looking at you now. 

“Was that a, ah… a _turn-on?_ Thinkin’ about me _fucking you_ while those _good_ officers were standing right there?” he asks, breath hot on your throat as his scarred cheek brushes the underside of your jaw, the stubble rubbing your skin. Your nipples harden against the fabric of your hoodie, and you wish your bare chest could be against his. “Who knew my babygirl was such an… _exhibitionist.”_

Hate just as black as his wicked heart sets your skin on fire, cheeks burning in shame and nails _aching_ to dig into his skin, to rend it, to make him _bleed._ You hate him for making you feel like this, for forcing these feelings to open their sleepy eyes, to make you want him _so bad_ that you can feel it etching itself into your bones, eternal and hot like hellfire. 

When his mouth pulls away from your neck, his dark eyes meeting yours, you dart forward without thinking, kissing him like he’s your source of life, hands tangling themselves in his greasy hair and pulling hard until he groans. One hand stays on your hip, the other going to the back of your head to keep you close, and he nips and pulls and you bite and tear, sucking away the drops of his blood that spill to the surface when your canine pierces the tumescent skin of his lips. Your clit grinds against his thigh, eliciting a high moan when it hits _just_ the right spot, your hips moving in a way you can’t stop. 

“I hate you,” you breathe against his mouth before sinking your teeth into his neck. 

“No, I don’t think you do.” A snarling laugh builds in his throat as he holds you harder, hands deepening existing bruises and creating new ones, and you relish each as they form. _“C'mon,_ babygirl, roll those hips for me,” he murmurs in your ear, both hands on your hips now as your sopping cunt rubs against his thigh, the rough material of his purple trousers harsh and unforgiving against your over-stimulated clit, and you can’t help yourself—you do as he tells you, moving faster as the pressure builds. 

_“I—I hate you—”_ you pant again, trying to convince yourself more than him. 

He chuckles, raising his thigh to increase the pressure against you clit, making you whimper and whine. “No, I _think_ the words you’re, ah, _lookin’_ for are _I want you, Daddy.”_

Burying your face in his neck, both of you covered in sweat and his hardening cock pressing against your thigh, you shake your head. “They—they’re _not—”_

“Then why are you just… _grinding_ against me like some _needy_ little slut, _hmm?_ Explain _that_ to me,” he simpers, unable to help himself when it turns into a low giggle of a jackal. 

Any retort you would’ve made dies on your tongue when he turns the dial up on the vibrator to its limit, your whole body seizing like you were struck by lightning, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling off the face of the earth. 

You're going to cum. _Hard._ There’s no holding it back, and you don’t want to. You don’t think about how your slick is soaking through his pants, how pathetic you are working yourself against his leg like some inexperienced virgin—you want him to make you cum, your own need choking you as he holds you like you’re the only thing that ever mattered. 

"J— _please_ , I can't— _mm!_ I’m so— _so close—"_

Just when you’re on the edge of Nirvana, Joker puts enough pressure on your hips to make you cry out in pain, halting their progress and looking you dead in the eye. 

_“Admit_ that you like it and I’ll let you cum. Sound, ah, _fair?”_

You whine, attempting to move your hips only for him to grip you hard enough you think he might be able to crush your bones with his bare hands. When you try again, he slaps his open hand so hard against your ass that you see stars, the pain spreading hot like napalm when he hits you again before squeezing the mound of flesh and springing tears to your eyes.

“I—I’m sorry, but—c’mon, _please—”_

He spanks your ass again, hard enough to bruise as he brings it down three times more until you scream, pleas lost in a sob as you press yourself closer to him and he _tsks_. “Nuh- _uh_. Be a _good_ girl for Daddy now.” 

Slowly, so _agonizingly slow,_ he draws your hips back, bringing them forward with the same amount of force and steady patience. Combined with your quivering pussy walls contracting around the vibrator, tightening and wishing with your whole being that it was his cock it was wrapped around instead, it’s enough to make you crazy, willing to say anything, _do_ anything—but this time you can’t bring yourself to be mad. 

_“I—I want you—”_

It’s true—you want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything, but your own gasping whimpers and moans rob the words from you, your mouth salivating as he rolls your hips. 

“No- _t_ good enough.” 

When he holds you still again, lips tantalizing against your skin, you break. Everything becomes about the release, about holding him as it happens, having your soul ignited as your cunt spasms and contracts and your clit gets that divine friction only he can give you. 

“I want— _I want you, Daddy,_ _please—”_

It seems like such a vast understatement now. You think that, just maybe, what you’ve felt has always gone past simple _want._ You _need_ this man. You need him like the air you breathe. You need him like he’s the sun and the only source of gravity you’ve ever known.

“I want you— _ah!—I want you so bad, Daddy_ —more, _please, more—”_

_“Good girl,”_ he growls, releasing your hips to let them resume their frantic pace, going under your hoodie to cup your breasts, his fingers working your nipples between them as you scream and writhe. His voice is in your ear, telling you how gorgeous you are when you’re a slut for him, when you ride his thigh like your life depends on it and how much he loves your tits and how he could just _eat you alive_ and you want more, you _need_ more— 

“Let me see your _beautiful_ face when you cum, _hmm?”_ he says, voice a throaty growl before he sucks on that sweet spot on your neck, taking the skin in his mouth and biting down until the skin’s ready to split. You pull back, brows drawn up and eyes barely open as you mindlessly obey, hands gripping his through the fabric of your hoodie as you let out one last scream that transforms into a howl of desperation, your eyes forced closed and starbursts blinding you behind the closed lids as you tighten up like a wound spring, coiling around him like a python as you cum, hands moving to his shoulders and nails scratching his skin, drawing beads of blood as a wrenching sob shakes you. 

_“There_ we go, hmm?" he says in your ear when you collapse against him, completely spent, head and heart empty as you shiver and shake. You're clinging to him, his hands sliding out of your hoodie to rest on either side of your waist. "You did _such_ a good job for me, babygirl.” He kisses your neck, your cheek, pushing your hair away from your shoulder and placing a soft kiss there, too. You didn't think he could be like this, that _you_ could be like this. 

"What did I do?" you whisper, reality eeking in, replacing the fire in you with cold realizations. 

“Hmm?” His muscles go taut, and he pulls you away from him, holding you at arm's length as he examines your face. It's not until he sighs and caresses your cheek that you realize you're crying again. 

_"What did I do, J?"_ you choke, burying your face in your hands. 

_"Shh, shh."_ The Joker surprises you again. With that gentleness he claims he doesn't have, he draws you close, wrapping his hands around you. It's a different kind of warmth from before, comforting and making what you thought last night real—it feels more like home than the walls around you. "Just… let it all out, babygirl." 

You hold him and cry and he lets you, thumb stroking small circles along your shoulder blades. It almost makes everything feel normal again, like the searing brand was always there, that he's always been in your life, like you never wanted to know anything else. 

But you know that isn't true. 

“What… what happens now?”

You won't be able to stay here anymore, your home isn't yours. You've given up your only chance of making him go away, of taking back what you lost on Halloween, of having that life you always thought you wanted. Your heart hurts knowing that you're not mad that he does these things to you, that you're not mourning what lies in front of you, but what you so easily gave up.

“It’s just gonna be you and me,” he says into your hair, raising you just enough to kiss your lips, hands cupping your cheeks so softly that you almost think you aren't holding the same man. _“Always.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 4, 1979 is when Heath Ledger was born. This is a little early, but I wanted to take a moment to reiterate not only how much writing has meant to me in the last two years, but also acknowledge the massive impact Heath's work has had on my life. It was _The Dark Knight_ that led me to discover my absolute passion for writing, acts as my muse, and has led me to meet some of the most wonderful people out there. Thank you for supporting me, my writing, and joining me in not only indulging our insane thirst, but also in loving and appreciating the man that was taken way too damn soon. 
> 
> I hope you liked the first chapter of this, and the second is coming out on Sunday (I hope). Please stay safe, everyone, and look out for one another 💖.


	2. Lost in a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheer up baby  
> Everybody knows you're crying  
> Everybody knows you're trying  
> Everybody knows I'm lost in a dream  
> I'm lost in a dream
> 
> Breaking more  
> Everybody knows you're fine  
> Everybody knows you're trying  
> Everybody knows I'm lost in a dream  
> I'm lost in a dream
> 
> "Lost in a Dream" - Foxwarren

When the Joker said it would be _just you and him,_ you didn't really know what that meant. Hell, even thinking about it makes it seem like you had a hold on the concept to begin with. You imagined… Well, not a Bonnie and Clyde scenario, not even you two hiding out in some sort of secret lair like the clichés you’ve seen in movies. The more you think about it, the less you can grasp the original thought, but you sure as hell didn't imagine that you’d end up in a goddamn fourplex.

_I’ve been watching too many Wes Craven movies…_

The Joker’s gentle mood didn’t last long. After you finished crying against his chest, sniffling and almost falling asleep on his shoulder, he all but knocked you to the floor and hopped to his feet, telling you to pack and throw the _important things_ together in a bag. He silenced your protests and questions, telling you he’d take care of the rest as he threw on that purple suit again and applied a fresh coat of greasepaint as you stared at him, slack-jawed in the hallway. 

And you didn’t really have a choice, did you? 

It wouldn’t take the police long to figure out you lied, for Joseph to be fully coherent and tell them the truth, or even for _you_ to give everything away and land yourself in a prison cell if you wandered out alone, said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Going back to work wasn't an option any more than staying in your apartment was. It was probably for the best that he insisted he’d take care of everything, that you let your mind wander while you moved like _you_ were the ghost all along, not him. You barely remembered the car ride to… wherever you are now. Probably somewhere in the East End, maybe the Narrows, but you didn't really care to know. 

“Home _sweet_ home, babygirl,” the Joker sang, pushing you from the van and laughing when you tripped on the way out. 

The building you were supposed to call _home_ was dilapidated, bogged-down after weathering one too many storms, old and grimy and covered with overgrown vines—and that was the generous description. Joker treated it like you just rolled up at The Ritz, a jig in his step and jittery energy making his muscles jump and twitch, letting you struggle with your bags as he talked in harsh, low tones to the rough-looking men who were there to greet you. None of them looked at you longer than a few seconds, like students in a classroom trying to cheat on a test and barely avoiding getting caught. Some of them seemed fine, like guys you might see walking down the street without blinking twice, and others looked like the type you wouldn't want living in the same three-block radius. Even after everything he said, it shouldn’t have blindsided you that the Joker ignored your presence almost completely, only glancing your way when you’d wandered too far and he’d pull you back, looping your hair around his gloved finger, barking out orders to the others and gripping the back of your neck like you were a wayward puppy. 

_That seems like an accurate description, given recent events,_ you thought, eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

You didn't protest when Joker took you around the back of the building and up to one of the second-floor apartments, and you were relieved that his men didn’t follow. It was fairly spacious, larger than your place (your _old_ place, you mentally corrected), the furniture outdated, bare and frayed, the kitchen seemingly empty. You passed what looked like a study, its walls covered in what looked like maps and building plans and notes written in multi-coloured sharpies in a scrawl too messy to read from afar. The master bedroom didn't look much different from the rest of the apartment, wallpaper half-torn off in chunks and exposing old, beat-up plaster, a queen-size bed with a wrought iron frame shoved up against a wall with a comforter haphazardly thrown across a mattress without any sheets, the room otherwise empty apart from a lone dresser. 

You felt empty when you took it all in, assuming that sensation again that you really were in a dream, that you couldn’t be shaken from it. When the bedroom door closed behind you, his hands were on your body, starting at your hips and waist and working up to your chest. You kissed him hard, eager for his warmth and touch, for something solid and tangible with your body against his as you ignored how much the burn above your heart flared up with the added pressure. He seemed so _eager_ for you—his hips grinding against yours, kisses sloppy as your mouths met, your cheeks stained with the white and red and black, both of your breathing heavy. His fingers dug into every soft part of you, moulding you to him, and you were desperate to be shaped, to be near and to be consumed by him. Your fogged brain couldn't think of anything else, only searching for the comfort he offered you. 

But then he tore away the dream, freezing it in ice as he pulled away. With his hand on the back of your neck, lips by your ear as he kissed that sensitive spot right where your lobe and jaw meet, he gave your sore behind one last grab with a _make yourself comfy_ comment thrown over his shoulder and, before you could blink, he left, disappearing into the ether and leaving you reeling. 

And he’s been gone for two days. 

You thought at first that he had gone outside to talk with those men, but after three hours and no sign of him, you realized he was likely off doing… you don’t want to guess. The news you occasionally gleaned over the last year was enough of a clue that you shouldn't think about it. But, unlike before, he didn't leave you to wait for him in your own territory; he left you to wait in his and, based on his comments from before, he didn’t trust you to move freely. Not anymore. 

You didn’t feel like testing your luck (and you still don't, you're too tired for that), venturing out to see if some goon would be waiting to greet you with a gun and finding out the _exact_ limits of what you can and can't do. So, you stayed inside, plagued with the questions that have been hounding you for weeks— _what are you supposed to do now? How long until he gets bored of this game, of_ you? 

The first day alone you spent idly searching the nooks and crannies of the apartment, looking through the cobweb-filled cupboards and dust-covered shelves. You gathered that the Joker couldn't have been here for long, that the property must've been foreclosed. Cigarettes and mould and dirt are more the predominant smells, and you’re relieved that the shower works, even if it hasn’t been cleaned in God knows how long, and you dread the work it’ll take for the place to be close to liveable. You couldn't find it in yourself to start yet, knowing once you begin the surreal will fade, and cruel reality won’t be so easily chased away again. 

So you slept the rest of that day, glad that the comforter was clean, that it smelled like him, that you could have some quiet to not think about anything, to let your dreams overtake the rational, whorl in repeating patterns that you could get lost in. 

But then your body has its fill early on the second day, and the sweet escape of sleep is taken from you, too. He's not back yet; not that you can tell, anyway. It’s cold in the apartment. You saw some old-fashioned radiators but have no idea how to turn them on, so you stay under the blanket, stomach empty and panging with something besides hunger, watching the shadows drift across the walls like you’d stare at an hourglass as the grains of sand drained down, slow and then fast, your actual hold on time lost somewhere in between. 

Maybe it’s because of how sore you are that you don't want to move, how your body was pushed past its limit over and _over_ again, trapped in a spiral that you threw yourself into, or maybe because, somewhere along the way, you gave something to him you can’t take back, leaving you hollow until he chose to pour the life he’d taken back into you. 

_What does someone do when they’ve lost everything?_

You don’t even think the Joker can give an answer to that. 

Somehow, the midday sun you awoke to is gone, the shadow of twilight overtaking the room in the span of a long blink. It’s so quiet here, almost like Gotham doesn’t exist in this new, small world where you’re all alone. You curl up tighter under the blanket, thinking about what would’ve been promises if anyone else had said them—how he said he wouldn’t leave you alone, how he said he wanted to keep you forever. 

_He lied._

That really shouldn’t blindside you either, but it does. He hollowed you out, took everything else away, and then he left you here. And, this time, there is no illusion of moving on. 

* * *

It’s quiet at first, the creaking. Weight shifting on loose and uneven floorboards, rusted hinges grinding together as the door sways, old springs singing with the change in pressure—it’s a melody that seeps past your ears, sparking a burst of colour behind your closed eyelids. 

You’re not cold anymore. You’re warm, wrapped up tight like you were never left to float away. It forms itself to your spine, and you find a sense of safety as you’re smothered. This… is the presence you crave, the one that found its way inside you in the form of a shadow that Halloween night, and you search for it when it draws away, just on the cusp of catching it, of delving further into the dream. 

But it slips through your fingers, and you wake up cold again. 

Bolting upright, eyes slow to adjust to the bright sunlight streaming through the bare windows, you forget where you are. Your heart palpitates painfully, anxious and afraid when you don’t see the artwork you hung in your room, the comforting mess of clothes in the corner or your well-loved trappings of home. This place is barren and colourless, frigid and desolate, and you’re still on your own. 

Well, you think you are until you hear those first signs of life—cupboards opening and closing, something heavy clanking against a flat surface. The bedroom door isn’t in the same place you left it in when you went to sleep, open wide rather than closed. Instead of finding relief in having something other than near-total silence, you’re afraid. What if one of the Joker’s men found his way in here? You become colder still when you remember that you’re now in a world filled with men a lot worse than the one who brought you here. 

_He probably didn’t leave any weapons, did he? Oh, Jesus…_

Cowering in bed will do nothing, you know that, but it still takes a couple of minutes to summon the courage to swing your legs out of bed. You never did change out of that hoodie you put on before, but at least now you’re wearing sweatpants instead of shorts. 

_Just… breathe. I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine…_

You’re not very convincing, but you steel your nerves when you walk out of the bedroom, craning your neck around the corners until you see that tell-tale purple trench coat thrown over the back of the ragged La-Z-Boy. Pace quickening, you actually sigh in relief when you see the mess of poorly-dyed green hair atop a broad set of shoulders in the kitchen. 

“Joker?” you say from the hallway, still tentative and the heat returning to your cheeks. Despite yourself, you’re excited—eager for his company, forcing yourself to be optimistic that you can sort out a plan for what the hell the next few weeks will look like. 

But something's different. 

He doesn’t turn around, and you see that he’s in a white tank top and the same purple pants from before—that pleasant warmth turning into an uncomfortable boil when you remember what you did, how you clung to him and surely stained the fabric—and his green diamond suspenders hang loose around his hips. 

“When did you get back?” you ask, walking into the small kitchen to stand behind him as he pokes around in the old fridge. He says nothing, and the smell of cigarettes grows stronger, but it's mixed with something else—something metallic and acrid. It’s like you really do have a fever, the heat fleeing as something cold settles in your stomach. “Um… J? Is… is everything alright?” 

His spine tenses at the sound of your voice, shoulders rolling up towards his ears as he lets out a snarl. “Why don’t you, ah…” He starts to laugh, deep and slow at first and then transforming into a high-pitched cackle of madness. It’s unsettling and fills you with dread, and you can’t remember why you thought it was a good idea to leave the bedroom. _“Leave,”_ he forces out in a dark exhale, turning just enough to glare at you from over his shoulder. The look in his eyes is enough to make you fall against the counter for support, throat tight. This man is a stranger, another self you haven’t met, his eyes alive with hate, black as pitch and burning. 

“I—I don’t… I don’t understand,” you whisper, fear finding you when he turns around. This isn’t the man who brought you here, not even the one who hurt Joseph—this is entirely the fiend you’ve seen on the news. And he’s staring at you like he barely remembers your face. “I’ve been… waiting for—for you, _again,_ and I—I’m confused—”

He steps forward and you almost drop to the floor, the counter biting painfully into your side as you keep yourself upright. Most of the makeup is gone, patches missing in large streaks, like someone pawed at his face and left small red scratches behind. He stands between you and the kitchen exit, body tense and poised like a tiger, jaw working back and forth as he grinds his teeth, mulling on his scars. 

_How did he change so much in two days?_

The Joker doesn’t say anything, he just keeps staring you down like he’s ready to go for your jugular. You thought you knew what it was like to be afraid the night he branded you, convinced that was when he was going to kill you.

 _‘I do…_ enjoy _pain, doll. I do._ I like it _. Bu-_ t _, something tells me you still don’t_ really _know what that means. I can show you, y'know, and it won’t be so, ah…_ gentle.’

That’s what he said to you not too long ago—but that’s a threat for when you don’t want to listen; you haven’t done anything wrong. You couldn’t have, right? 

_Then why is he staring at me like that?_

He stalks closer and it’s like your stomach is in your throat, the floor dropping out from beneath you. “Talk to me,” you plead, circling away from him around the limited space until he corners you, arms going on either side to cage you between him and the counter. His eyes are drooped and heavy, devoid of anything recognizably human. “Why—why aren’t you… _Please,_ say something,” you whisper, shaking as your arms wrap around your waist. He’s not even smiling, the curved scars only serving to emphasize the wrath you can’t explain, a façade that hides his barely restrained violence. 

_Why stay with me at all on Halloween, break into my apartment and spend that long weekend with me, throw a man off a bridge just to prove a point and go to such lengths to impart his_ sick _lessons only for it to come to this?_

When he places a hand on your throat, you almost scream. His thumb rubs down the length of your jumping muscles, eyes focused on your neck like he can see the blood circulating in your veins. Still silent, gaze dark and malevolent and hypnotizing, he leans forward, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply. 

_“Shh, shh, shh,”_ he breathes against your skin when you whimper, applying the slightest bit of pressure to your carotid to make your head feel light. He’s so close it’s suffocating, his weight bowing you against the counter as your chest heaves. 

_Don’t cry—I can’t cry—_

You feel hollow from being alone for so long and, this time, the Joker’s doing nothing to sustain you, give you that lifeline to hold onto. He’s only taking—taking what’s left of your ability to reason as his other hand goes inside your hoodie to rest on your ribs, squeezing hard enough to bruise, stealing the air you breathe as he huffs in your scent like he just took a hit, fingers carding themselves through your hair, pushing it away from your face as he marks you, his greasepaint transferring to your skin. If it wasn’t for the punishing pressure, the aura of malignance and hostility, this would’ve felt like the kind of intimacy you craved back in your apartment before he shoved you away. 

“Why are you—what happened?” You’re trying to push him back, palms on his chest as your arms shake with the effort as you try to stay calm. He doesn’t budge. Panic almost closes your throat completely. “Why did you… did you bring me here if—”

Where it was like he was crushing you to him before, now he’s closer to throttling you. Recognition flashes across his face, but his eyes are so dilated that his irises nearly take up the whole of them, the smudged black paint making them look cavernous. Shoving you until you bend at the waist, your hips lined up with his as you’re flat on your back, he stands between your legs, both hands on your jaw and forcing it closed. You try to scream, but he shakes you until you stop, his whole body arcing like he’s a lightning strike made flesh. 

“You wanna have that conversation _right now?_ Hmm?” he demands, shaking you again until your hands grab his, incoherently begging him to stop with whimpers alone. “Do I need to—to give you some kinda _wake up call_ , babygirl? You have a com- _plaint…”_

He breaks off cackling and you have no idea why—what he could _possibly_ find funny about this—his chest shaking against yours as he drops his head to rest on your shoulder. Your spine screams at you in protest, still sore and hurting from when he had you tied up and now bending all the wrong ways against the unyielding stone countertop, toes barely touching the floor. 

Maybe you were wrong—the Joker doesn't have a grip on his _baser self._ Maybe he's just as at the mercy of it as you are, his inner reserve of depravity and violence deep and volatile, surging up when he doesn't intend.

Knowing that now doesn't help—the dream’s gone, and you’re not sure what you thought would be waiting for you. What is so _wrong_ with you that you didn't stop this from happening, that a part of you was excited _,_ goddamn _enticed_ whenever you saw him, eager to see what happened as long as it meant you were next to him? Even though you accept that there's no getting away, that your short life is irreparably tied to his because, once again, you asked not to be alone, you can't swallow the truth of what it really means, what it looks like. 

“Wh-Why did you—did you bother bringing me here, J?” you ask, voice wavering as anger fills the void otherwise occupied by uncertainty. “At least tell me that much—”

 _“I don’t need to tell you anything,”_ he forces out between clenched teeth, each word part of a muted roar deep in his chest, adding more pressure to his grip on your throat and killing your resolve when he bares his teeth, unhinged and beastly. He's become what you feared the first night you met, the thing he taunted you with, becoming all sharp teeth and embodying feral viciousness— _the Big Bad Wolf_.

_You should’ve listened._

“Y’know, I think you need to _brighten up_ a bit, doll. Learn some… _appreciation._ Consider your whole—” he gesticulates emphatically across the small space between you, humming under his breath like he's skipping through words, tasting each to find the right one, eyes darting up to a corner of the ceiling as he reins in his boiling anger. You wince every time he inches closer until his nose drags across your cheekbone, lips hovering above yours, "Your, ah… _situation.”_

You can barely see, vision going dark as you try to breathe, but something else enters his expression. He's smirking now, but it isn't something you recognize either—sardonic and cruel and _mean,_ he looks crazed, like a mad prophet high off of whatever you're giving him. He pushes himself up, breathing ragged, and pulls on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it over your head to expose your stomach and chest. 

_"W-Wait—!"_ you yell, fighting with him to keep it down. You don't want him to be rough with you, to take you on the counter and knock your remaining sanity down another level. You’re afraid he might start something you never want him to finish. 

He ignores you, pulling it upward until it's past your face and tangled in your arms, baring your naked chest to him as he stares down in something between reverence and contempt. His fingers ghost the soft lines of your stomach, the edges of your breasts as your back arches involuntarily, like you're still subconsciously aching for him, eager and touch-starved even when he presses harder against your bruises and cuts, stopping at the burn and fixing his gaze on it, eyebrows drawn together. 

You hold your breath and wait, staring at his face and looking for some kind of sign. 

Eventually, he blinks like he's coming out of his own dream, eyes returning to normal size, arms covered in sweat. But he still looks so—so _angry,_ struggling on the edge between hatred and intense want. It's only when you try to move your arms and sit up that you feel the cold steel next to your cheek as he holds you down. 

_"J, please—"_

Your voice seems to make the choice for him. Grip tightening, he leans back over you, the tip of a calloused finger tracing the outline of your features. "I—ah, I—" He doesn't seem to know where to start, taking the knife away slowly and flicking it closed like every move is a conscious decision not to do its opposite. You see regret until he crushes it, shoving your hoodie down and pulling you upright by the collar until you're flush with him. _“You belong to me, hmm?_ You're not goin' _anywhere."_ His muscles strain against his skin, tensing with each punctuated syllable. When you try to speak, he shakes you in warning, his free hand twitching and cutting through the air. "You do… _what_ I say _when_ I say it. _Hmm?_ So, if I say you're stayin' here with _me,_ then that's what you do. When I tell you to _leave,_ you _listen—_ scamper off until I say otherwise. Read a book—knit me a sweater, _I don't_ _care_. Do you, ah, _understand?”_

You're both breathing hard, and there's still something clouded in his eyes, like he's sick with a fever that's made him rabid. Lips pressed together tightly, you can't find the words to answer him. 

_Is this how it's going to be? We just… fuck when he feels like it and then I have to worry about staying in a corner until he feels like talking to me?_

But did you really expect otherwise? 

“N-No, no I don’t—I don’t understand.” An involuntary hiccup escapes as you break a little more, hoping for something you know he’ll never be. Tears spill over but you don’t wipe them away, and he blinks like you slapped him, head shaking with his eyes closed and expression worked into a grimace. “Did I—did I do something wrong?” you ask, breath stuttering in your throat. 

He has that expression again—the one where it looks like you hit him, like he’s disoriented, like no matter what he does, he can't escape reality either. 

“No.” Slowly, he draws away, the intense heat going with him as he turns and runs a hand through the sweaty strands of his hair, muscles rolling like he’s waiting to burst. “No, you didn’t.” 

He sounds different—closer to the _other_ versions of him you’re more familiar with. When he doesn’t turn to keep you in place, you slide off the counter, biting your lip hard to keep yourself from groaning. Wiping at your cheeks, you keep waiting—to see what he’ll do, if he’ll tell you he changed his mind after all, if he’ll wrap you in another hug like he did before and make the whole world fall away. 

“I’m…” 

For a split second, you can almost hear him say _I’m sorry,_ but you’re not that stupid. The Joker doesn’t _apologize._ Because that’s who you’re dealing with: The Joker. Not just any person you’ve ever fancied before, some passing infatuation you’ll forget about a couple of years down the line, but someone whose life's work revolves around the misery and pain of others, drawing up battle plans and making havoc rain down. 

_What does it say about me that it doesn't hold the same weight, that I want him_ because _he's like that?_

This is a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, something you could've changed and made excuses as to why you didn't, and that crazy part of you is already soothing back the fear and, as soon as the immediate physical threat is gone, you hunger for him more than you have for anything else in your life. 

But you were right, he doesn’t say _sorry,_ doesn’t move for you to see him, leaving you only able to gauge his mood from how he cracks his neck, how the muscles in his arms twitch and flex. 

“Eat something.” 

You think he meant for it to come out more harshly than it did, voice a husky growl that comes from deep in his throat, but he doesn’t stop to say anything else, silently leaving the room until the creaking floors give him away, the soft _click_ of the study door closing, and it's only when you're alone again that you see your skin covered in someone else's blood. 

* * *

The quiet returns, a heavy blanket that holds you down, tangles your limbs when you try to break free to drag you back under, hiding you from the sun and blocking out the stars to keep you in the dark. You realize that it's always been there to varying degrees in your life—that suffocating feeling. And it only gets better when he's around. 

_What does that mean, then?_

After the Joker left to lock himself in the study, you stayed in the kitchen and cried. Mostly in relief but also because of the unrelenting reality—who you really are, what you actually want—declaring war on your societal sensibilities—what you know you _should_ want, who you _should_ be. You knew you could leave then, walk out the door and he probably wouldn’t come looking for at least a few days. That would be long enough to call the police, to disappear in another city and take your meagre life savings with you, to find a path back to _normal._

But you never move past thinking about it. 

What has your old life given you? A steady income, comfortable living, the occasional vacation every three to four years, a few friends who made you feel like you were missing out on something, like there was a secret to being _content_ no one wanted to share, the illusory promise of safety. With the Joker… yes, there's certainly terror, no guarantees of anything _close_ to safety (well, at least no promise of safety that _he_ won't be the one hurting you), isolation from everything you tried to make an extension of yourself, but there's that burning feeling of being _alive_ when you're with him, like anything and everything is possible if you say the right words, when his hands are on you. 

_When did that happen?_

You know how things will end if you try to go back, even if the police wouldn't be involved. All you've done your whole life is overthink everything, plan for the contingencies and follow every step from the cookbook on life hoping it would make you feel… _something,_ run like it was electricity powering you, _acting_ instead of thinking. But it never worked out that way—instead, you always feel like you're living someone else's life. 

Maybe this was the chance to make your own.

 _Then… don't think about it anymore. Just…_ do. 

It's well after dark by the time you venture out of the bedroom again, the blood long since dried on your skin, to quietly pad past the still-closed door of the study to the bathroom. The water is tinted with rust and never gets past a lukewarm temperature, but you stay in the shower for a long time, washing the excessive sleep from the last two days and scrubbing away the handprints in red Joker left on your neck and chest, waking up your body as you put your mind to rest, half-hoping he'll join you and feeling disappointed when he doesn't. The apartment is especially cold when you step out of the steam and open the bathroom door, and you shiver as you hold the too-small towel close around your body. His study is still shut off from the rest of the world; you think about knocking, throwing your towel to the side and having him inside you, but you realize it's better to wait, for whatever happened to pass. 

_How many times will that happen again?_

You shake your head. Taking it a day at a time, being willing to change if needed—that's what you have to do. No amount of thinking or planning is going to make him _normal_ (whatever the fuck that means), and you don't know how you'd feel if he was. 

_If this isn't the ultimate culmination of self-destructive behaviour, I don't know what is._

When he told you to pack, you just took whatever you could grab in your bedroom and stuffed it into your luggage and duffel bags, and you create a new mess when you dig through them, searching for… you don't really know what—something that catches your eye, that will make you feel at home. You keep searching until you find a long sweater dress, one of your favourites, and your old iPod that you used constantly until a couple of years ago when you finally got a better cellphone. You don't know if you can take the quiet alone, wanting the world to drop away instead and sink further into this dreamscape made real. 

Not towelling off well and not caring, you pull on the dress, careful to avoid the now healing burn, and set up the iPod on the dresser, eager for something to fill the quiet aches and still silence. You don't really think about the song that plays from the small speakers, just letting the melody wash over you as everything else fades. There isn't much to see out the windows, only more beat-up buildings like this one, tightly packed and blocking your view of the sky. But, when you close your eyes, that doesn't matter—you shift your memories around, sliding together the different little pieces to create something new. 

_In every breath there's life  
_ _Between my teeth a knife_

Your feet move, unbidden, shuffling languidly as you sway. When's the last time you danced without feeling self-conscious, without needing several drinks to shove your inhibitions away? 

_Pronounced us man and wife  
_ _For evermore_

You can't remember. 

Letting your feet follow the grooves of the warped floor, you keep your eyes closed and hum to the lyrics, feeling rather than hearing them. You get lost in it, waiting for that lone light to guide you back to the harbour. 

_Cause once you've found your thrill  
_ _You move in for the kill_

Call it intuition, or some heightened sense that comes through when you block everything else out, but you open your eyes and turn towards the doorway. He's there, leaning against the frame and watching you, still wearing the white top with the intermittent splatters of blood, his hands and arms scrubbed clean. His eyes are still dark, hooded with something you're still not sure how to name, but he's smiling. It's closer to being real, like he might mean it, his arms crossed as he takes in your bare legs. 

You want to go to him, what you'd do isn't clear in your head, but you keep waiting, watching him like he's watching you. 

_I'd chase you up the hill  
_ _And all through time_

"Do you like dancing?" you ask.

He raises an eyebrow at you, otherwise unmoving apart from his head tilting slightly to the side. _"Mmm,"_ he grunts, non-committal and blasé. 

You're not deterred, not afraid like you were. You don't think he'd come see you now if he didn't have some control over himself, excised whatever it was that caused him to lose it in the first place. 

_For now._

"I used to take lessons as a kid. Not for long, my parents said it was too expensive, but…" 

_And now my memory  
_ _Seems to be failing me_

You stop dancing, the words leaving you. What is it about him that makes you so close but also so far away from yourself? Staring out the window again, you find that patchwork picture you created in your head, trying to find the feeling you had just five minutes ago. 

_What once was fantasy  
_ _Is all I've ever known_

"Show me." 

The Joker's in front of you now, appearing like a wraith. His remaining makeup weeps down his cheeks, long streaks of black almost reaching his scars. You can see the man underneath that unlocked something in you when you had that razor to face, when he kept the other monsters away—even if they were in your head—at Halloween. You want to touch them again, feel the corded scars under your fingertips, memorize every curve and split. He leans down, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, smile turning into a condescending sneer. 

_The thing I miss the most  
_ _Lives in some demon host_

"You _deaf,_ babygirl?" he asks, tapping the tip of your nose a little too hard as he moves closer, making sure to angle your back to the wall. 

_What's real and what isn't?_

"Huh?" You're not sure if you heard him right, if you imagined his interest and he's actually here to finish what he started in the kitchen or if this is the same man who pulled you into bed and held you with a crushing grip all those weeks ago. 

_I know you're not a ghost  
_ _Just down the street_

He rolls his eyes, scoffing. "Ah, _show me."_

His gaze lands back on you, but it isn't smothering, isn’t tangling you in that blanket that wants to drown you. Or, maybe it’s because you’re accepting it that it makes you feel warm, sinking down rather than trying to break through, and you find yourself smiling. It's big and unabashed, and you can't remember if you felt like this around him before. He seems taken aback by it, too—not completely, but he looks… surprised. You'd even swear that he got a little warmer, the heat radiating from him infecting your brain a little more. 

_I am a spinning man  
_ _A living ceiling fan_

"Right. _Right._ You, um… you put your hand here," you say, shaking your head and placing one of his large palms on your waist, his fingers spreading along your ribs as your breath stutters, "and—and then you hold my hand, like this." 

The Joker lets himself be moved, stepping in closer than you instruct, gaze unmoving from your face as his head cranes down, his loose limbs belying the tension you feel in his chest as he presses it to yours, the power you feel in his hands as he holds you close. You can't help but wonder how long he'll keep humouring you until the wolf in him comes out again, not if but _when_ he’ll really tear you apart. 

_If two could only hang  
_ _In the same room once again_

"Then what, sweetheart?" His eyes aren't hard and jagged shards of obsidian anymore. Looking at him now is like staring into warm pools of earth.

 _And now my memory  
_ _Seems to be failing me_

"We just… go like this." You start to move, dancing to the simple two-step you learned in what feels like a lifetime ago, and Joker seems to know it already, his steps more precise and never in danger of crushing your toes. It feels good, being this close to him and, even though you can feel him trying to scry into your mind with his eyes, you never want him to let you go. "Yeah, you've got it," you say, beaming when he takes his hand from your waist to push your hair behind your ear. 

_What once was fantasy  
_ _Is all I've ever known_

Soon, you're both not bothering with the steps, getting lost in one another as the songs change, the tempo slow and then fast, individual lyrics coming through every once in a while—and you both ignore all of it, moving to your own beat, with you following his lead. Your head rests against his shoulder, and his thumb absently strokes the back of your hand, his other resting at the small of your back. You thought he'd try something—tease you, touch you _just so_ to get you riled up, giggle when you squirmed. But he doesn't do that, seemingly content with just being near. 

You're surprised when it isn't enough for you. 

"J?" you say, voice quiet like you don’t want to break the spell you’re both under, looking up at him from under your lashes. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear his neck is red. "Will you… will you stay with me for a little while?" 

A beat passes between you, but he never falters, spinning you ‘round and ‘round. He’s smiling again, devious and playful and infuriating and all you ever want to see. 

"And _why_ should I do that, hmm?" The smile fades, scars twitching as his gaze darkens, his touch hardening as he holds you too tight. "You should, ah… _stay away_ when I'm like this, doll." 

_Why can’t anything be simple with him?_

You want to throw it at him that he's the one who brought you here, that it's because of him that you can't stay at your own place anymore, that _he's_ the one who made things complicated. Hell, you want to throw all the blame on him, challenge his contradictions and his violent mood swings.

But you don't. 

"Why?" you ask. He doesn't say anything, looking at you like you should know the answer already. "If you really wanted to hurt me, it wouldn't matter what I did, would it?" 

There you go again—saying _if_ instead of _when_. But, if you’re being honest with yourself, you want this as much as he does, ugliness and all. Being battered and broken doesn’t matter as long as it’s with him. 

"No," he says, voice husky and deep. He leans in close, scars brushing against your cheeks and then your lips. "No, it wouldn't." 

He means it, you know he does, and you’re comforted with at least that one certainty. 

Going up on tip-toe, your hands on his neck and thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his jaw. You drag your gaze from his lips to his eyes, willing to drown in them. When you kiss him, feather-light and almost chaste, it’s like you’re sealing some sort of unspoken pact, reaffirming something you knew weeks ago. He doesn’t return it at first, your touch going from light and airy to desperate, tongue peeking out to trace the wishbone scar splitting his bottom lip, his responses slow and deliberate. 

_It’s not enough._

One hand works its way through his hair, the other bracing against his chest as you burn up. The music seems to surround you, resonate in your head and urging you on. He still isn’t touching you, not the way you need. Still pressing your mouth to his, you take his hands and place them on your waist, rolling your hips to grind against him. 

But he still leaves you wanting more. 

_Not enough._

You change tactics. Keeping a hold on his hands unwillingly breaking the kiss, he lets you lead him to the bed to sit. Your cheeks burn like fire, the _rational_ trying to overcome the uninhibited, and you shove it down, losing yourself a little more. 

He stares, enraptured when you take off your dress. You decided to wear nothing underneath when you put it on, all your marks on display, and you touch his shoulders first, pulling on a thick curl as you place a kiss on his neck. 

“Do you want me?” you murmur, pulling away only to drop to your knees and spread his legs for you to kneel between them. Your hands shake, but you place them on his thighs, never looking away from his face.

The corner of his mouth twitches and he adjusts, bringing his hips closer to the edge of the bed, one hand playing with your hair, nails scratching against your scalp. “Why don’t you, ah… _find out?”_

Swallowing hard, you lick your lips as you flick your eyes down to his groin, sitting up higher when your hands undo the front button of his pants, drawing the zipper down. He groans when you pull him out, hand wrapped around his hardening cock, his grasp tightening on your hair but never pulling you closer. 

_He wants me to put in all the work, doesn’t he?_

Now isn’t the time to be acting like a teenager getting to third base for the first time, but this feels more… intimate than what you’ve done before, like you’re more exposed than you were when he had you wrapped up in those Christmas lights. That had been degrading even if that sick part of you enjoyed it, when he had his cock in your mouth, but now you were diving blind into a pool you can’t see the bottom of. 

You want to get lost in that. Lost in him. 

You look to him for reassurance, and it's under his gaze, steady and dark and _electric_ that you take him in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head as he jerks upright, his grip pulling at your scalp as you let him glide further in your mouth. He holds back a groan that you can feel as his legs shake, and you suck slowly, jaw already aching around his thick girth and tongue working the underside of his cock as you take him into your throat, gagging as you try to breathe and push past your limits until you go all the way to his base. 

_“That’s_ it,” he growls, hips pressing upward and pushing himself deeper down your throat. _“Good girl.”_ It comes out as a snarl, almost begrudging that you can make him feel like this, his black anger and viciousness surging in the tensing of his muscles and curl of his lip, 

You try to hold it for a minute, tears springing to your eyes and threatening to pour down before you choke and come up for air, a long string of spit and precum, thick as a spider’s web, connecting you to him. You lick your lips, never breaking away from his hooded gaze, your hand circling his cock and pumping up and down, your pace slow and unhurried.

“Do you want me, Daddy?” you ask again, the tip of your tongue starting at the base of his cock, tasting the salt of his sweat and desire, and running to the tip, lapping up the leaking precum before your pursed lips wrap around him. He quiets a gravelly roar when your tongue trails back down, your hand still firmly gripping him, and you take one of his balls in your mouth, carefully sucking and nipping ever so slightly with your teeth. His hisses but doesn’t pull you away, his hips bucking forward instead for more. It’s a strange power you have over him, to make him feel like this—to make him feel _good_ and it doesn’t involve destroying you in the process. 

But that isn’t enough, either. 

You pull away completely, your grip around him loosening as you stay on your knees. His eyes are a deep abyss, lost in their own prism of reality; a muscle jumps in his cheek and he swallows. 

You’re still not used to how fast he is. You were going to stay something, try to coax a response from him, but he pulls you up to attack your mouth, not employing any of the gentle care you used, all forceful grips on your breasts and arms like he really does mean to tear you apart, his hands circling your neck to feel your pulse as he unravels. 

Both panting, he pulls you to his lap and you straddle him, thighs on either side of his and his cock resting against your stomach. He bites your shoulders and neck, adding new indents and cuts to your breasts as he takes a nipple in his mouth, and your hips roll, grinding against his cock as you moan. 

He’s not as patient as you were, lining his cock with your entrance and pulling you down towards him, you whimpering at the feeling of being so _full,_ stretching around him and filling that constant ache you think you’ll always have without him. Your cunt’s spasming already, struggling to adjust as you slowly raise yourself just to push back down, head lolling to the side as your moans grow louder. 

Hands digging into your shoulders to keep you from moving too far from him, he thrusts into you, the sounds of your bodies meeting indistinguishable from the music. You cling to him just as hard—he’s all you ever want, this is all you’ll ever want to feel, even at the cost of your mind. 

“I want you,” you rasp, struggling to catch your breath as you force your hips to slow, keeping him deep inside you, deep enough to hurt and it’s still not enough. You pull your head up from his shoulder, pressing your cheek to his, revelling in how his scars feel against your skin. 

You squeak in surprise when he stands up with you still impaled on his cock, turning in place to slam you against the bed and drive into you so hard you scream. He laughs, and you imagine that it’s what the devil must sound like. 

“Who do you belong to, babygirl?” he asks, pushing himself impossibly further, driving any trace of reason or thought from your brain. You know the answer like you know your own name, you just can’t form the words. He drives into you with punishing force, and your cunt contracts around him, eager for more. “C’mon, _c’mon, c’mon.”_ He’s growling, teeth sinking into your shoulder hard enough to draw blood. _"Say it—say it for me."_

“I belong to you,” you rasp, struggling to breathe, _“Only you.”_

Still inside you, he drags you both further up the bed, taking your hips and pulling them upward to drive in deeper to your core, groaning as he watches your pussy stretch to fully sheath his cock. You’re expecting him to piston into you, punish your cunt with brutal thrusts, but he doesn’t. Hands digging into your hips, he pulls out slowly, making your hole ache where he’s absent and then making you whimper when he fills you back up to the point you think you’ll burst open like over-ripened fruit. 

This isn’t the Joker being loving, you had no expectations of that. This was just a different way to shatter you, to pull you apart so he can tinker and put you back together. 

He wants to break you—you can tell. And you’re obliged to let him. 

You reach to grip his hair and bring him close, moaning into his mouth as his tongue explores yours, hot and wet and all-consuming. He was right before—all you can think about is him fucking you, filling you up, just— _him._ When he grabs your breast, roughly pinching and pulling the nipple, it’s too much, the stimulus mounting to the point of unbearable. 

_“Daddy, can I—ah!”_ You’re drowning—drowning in the feelings he gives you, the pleasure and the pain—drowning in _him._ “Please, let me cum, _please—please—”_

He drives into you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs, snarling and growling and _roaring_ as you dig your nails into his chest until you make him bleed, drops of his blood decorating your breasts until you put your mouth to the wound, eager to taste him— _all of him._ He pulls your head back to snake his tongue in your mouth, his blood passing between you both and painting your lips red. 

It’s too much, your cunt tightening around him to the point it hurts for him to move, and he’s sweating and groaning above you, struggling to keep himself under control.

“Cum for me, babygirl,” he forces out, tearing at your hair as his steady rhythm stutters, hips bucking to go faster, to fuck you into the mattress like he means to break it—or you—in half. 

It’s like your body knows its master’s call, the dam bursting as you scream and cry, wanting him to pull out but also to never stop, writhing as you cum and your hold on his shoulders and cock spearing you the only things anchoring you to the world. 

He fucks you through the orgasm, and it quickly rolls into another one, more powerful and _painful_ in the force of it making you feel like a dying star, imploding on yourself as everything else ceases to matter, all doubts and fears banished. 

“I—I’m going to— _mm!—_ a-again—” you pant, breathing ragged, spine arching as you keep back screams. You need his permission, to keep the divine alive inside you. _“Pl-Please—”_

"Oh, _babygirl."_ He laughs like the wind’s been knocked out of him, his pace slowing again until it’s just his hips rocking against you. “You’ll never _need_ anyone else, will you, _hmm?”_

You whine in protest when he stops completely, just the tip of his cock inside you as his body coils like a snake ready to strike. You want to move your hips, make him fill you again, but know better than to force it. 

“N-No—I won’t—” You start sobbing and you don’t know why, overwhelmed and by something you can’t explain. “Only you—only you, Daddy.” It’s a form of begging—begging him to believe you, to continue. You need to feel him cum inside you, need it like you need the sun. _“Please, let me—”_

He’s growling, lowering himself an inch at a time back into you, relishing how your pussy stretches to take him in, his whole body shaking with the effort of not cumming himself. "You remember what _good girls_ get, don't ya?" 

It takes time for the words to break through, to find a spot of clarity in the lust-fueled fog and remember. "They—they get reward— _mm!—_ rewarded, Daddy—" 

You throw your head back and moan and shiver when his thumb runs over your clit, cunt spasming and trying to get his cock further inside of you, desperate to clench around him as you’re lost back in the fog. 

"Very _good_ , babygirl." You can’t be sure if you’re hearing him anymore, but you're smiling. It’s just your bodies connected together as he starts fucking you again, finally sinking all the way inside, pushing as far as he can, strokes getting shallower like he can’t bear not being totally enveloped by you either. _"Very good."_

Time and sound don’t mean anything, it’s just your body getting close to its boiling point, but you think you’re just moaning _Daddy_ with every breath, legs hooking around his hips and driving him deeper as he holds you like you might float away. 

When you cum again, powerful and all-encompassing like a seizure that makes drool drip from the corner of your mouth, close to blacking out as it shakes and rattles every part of you in one tight burst of pressure before he cums too, his cock going as far as it can before spilling into your soaking cunt. It’s a feeling you didn’t know you craved so deeply, having his cum inside you—but now you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to orgasm again without him, without that promise that he’d ride it out and finish with you. 

When he’s finished, arms shaking and your sweat mingling together on your stomach, he collapses on top of you, barely holding his weight up so he doesn’t crush you completely. You both stay like that for a minute, your arms wrapped loosely around him as you battle to stay conscious, his nose buried in your hair. 

Too soon he starts to pull out, groaning softly as his hips move, and you come alive again. Legs tightening around his waist, you hold his face in your hands. "Wait, Daddy—please." He freezes, cocking an eyebrow. Where you were shameless before, you feel nervous again. Hesitant. "Can you… I want you—I just want you…" 

"Say _it,_ babygirl."

He sounds impatient, whatever this was for him fading out of his memory as the orgasmic high leaves. You shouldn’t be so flushed—the man just came inside you, is _still_ inside you, his blood is on your chest—but you are. Pushing the hair away from his face, you lean up and kiss him gently, your touch turning soft as your fingers trace the dips and indents of the muscles on his chest. 

"I want you to stay inside of me." He blinks like he did in the kitchen, like you slapped him, but this time he doesn’t hide the surprise as well. "Please?" 

You kiss his cheek, right above the scars. You don’t know why you want this—this strange form of intimacy, but you don’t want him to leave yet, for the moment to pass by and leave you waiting for whatever comes next. You want _this_ moment to last for as long as he’ll let it, and you meet his gaze and plead. 

He sighs, growling in annoyance. _“Gahhh._ Fine. Fine _, fine_ , fine _. Only_ because you were a _very_ good little _slut-_ ty bunny." 

He’s trying to sound mad, but you can hear the amusement, the smug tone of victory. You don’t feel like slapping him for it, desperate to fall asleep next to him. Adjusting you both to lie on your sides, your thighs still wrapped around him, you sidle closer until your chests meet, his cock still warm inside you.

"Thank you," you say, voice thick, holding him tightly as your eyes close. 

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it," he grumbles. You’re sure if you could see his face, he’d be rolling his eyes. You laugh harder than you have in months, kissing his chest and tasting the salt on his skin. 

Unlike at your apartment, he doesn’t wait a few minutes before shoving you away. His fingers work themselves into your hair as he whispers things you’re too tired to listen to in your ear, and you fall asleep like that—him buried inside you, your body throbbing and aching but lighter than you remember it being in years, and your mind's far enough away that you don’t find regret. Not this time. 

If this is what losing your mind is like, then you can’t find it in yourself to regret that either, willing to fall to wherever he is and enter the labyrinth without any plans of ever leaving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late, y'all! I'm sure like many of you, the pandemic crisis has been a lot to deal with, and sometimes my depression kicks my ass. That being said, I hope you like the conclusion to this installment :'). Not gonna lie, this one was a bit self-indulgent, and I'm low-key worried that it doesn't live up to the other chapters, so I hope it doesn't disappoint. 
> 
> Anywho, please enjoy the chapter and a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who's been so kind to comment (I will get to replying to those soon, promise!), leave kudos, and read this. It turns out I was already planning what a few of your were wondering about - Reader _is_ starting to admit she likes it and, most importantly, that she really likes _him_. It'll make for some interesting times ahead! Please be comforted (I feel like that's the wrong word here, haha) that I have fourteen more of these bad boys planned. _FOURTEEN_ \- making a grand total of 18 (unless, like the masochist I am, I add more. Someone help, lol). Sooo, if you have requests that you want me to incorporate or things you'd like to see, let me know, beautiful people! 💖
> 
> Stay safe out there and you can expect part 5 on May 16 ;D. 
> 
> PS - the song lyrics in the chapter comes from "All I've Ever Known" by Bahamas - I definitely recommend it!


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